


the master of fright and a demon of light

by beaches_at_treasure_island



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaches_at_treasure_island/pseuds/beaches_at_treasure_island
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I just needed to get out my feels from watching "Do You Believe In Miracles?". I wrote this fic comprised of the end scene from DYBIM and wrote the entire scene out. Basically a self-writing challenge, and it is pretty short. But, anyways... Please, enjoy. :)<br/>The title comes from "Jack's Lament" in Disney's The Nightmare Before Christmas.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	the master of fright and a demon of light

Crowley stands in the doorway of Dean’s room at the bunker, lurking in the shadows. Dean lies on the bed, cold, unmoving, and pale. His shirt is stained with blood, too much blood. His survival rate is zip, zero, zilch, for he is dead. Dead like Sam could have been less than a year prior, when the younger Winchester had been burned out from the trials, before Gadreel had intervened.

Crowley swaggers into Dean’s bedroom as he eyes the body of the elder Winchester on the bed, the only thing out of place in this tidy little room.

Dean Winchester, legacy and grandson of Henry Winchester, son of John Winchester, brother of Sam. Dean Winchester, vessel of Michael, Apocalyptic savior, self-sacrificing squirrel. Dean Winchester, wielder of the First Blade, bearer of the Mark of Cain.

The King of Hell settles himself comfortably into the desk chair as he contemplates. The smidges of humanity left by his previous addiction have led him to feel human emotions, even after a few months. This time it is hope that Crowley feels. He hopes that his hunch is right, hopes that the squirrel will come back to...well, not life; more like existance. And most of all, the demon hopes for forgiveness for the withholding of certain information.

He decides that perhaps trying to speak to Dean would be a good starting point.

“Your brother, bless his soul,” Crowley begins, rolling his eyes and sighing, “is summoning me as I speak.” Continuing in a put upon and slightly sarcastic tone, he spiels off what sounds like a well rehearsed list. “Make a deal, bring you back. It’s exactly what I was talking about, innit? It’s all become...so, expected.”

The demon with the touch of humanity pauses, laments that the Winchesters’ lives are so wraught with pain and death that such a thing is the norm. Again, he ponders his words, how best to continue. He takes a breath and plows on.

“You have to believe me,” says Crowley sounds as though he is the most desperate he has ever been, “when I suggested you take on the Mark of Cain, I didn’t know that this was going to happen.” He gives a little shake of his head, looks down. “Not really,” he adds, glancing back at the husk of Dean’s flesh, where his soul once resided. “I mean I might not have told you the _entire_ truth. But I never lied. _I never lied, Dean._ ” His voice, sharp with emphasis, softens while he explains.

“It’s important. It’s fundamental. _But_ , there is one story about Cain that I might have... _forgotten_ to tell you. Apparently, he, too, was willing to accept death rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the blade. He died. _Except_ ,” the King stresses, “as rumor has it, the Mark never quite let go.”

Crowley reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the First Blade. “You can understand...why I never spoke of this. Why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation?” The demon asks rhetorically. He stands up, ambles over to the bed. “It wasn’t until you summoned me, no, it wasn’t _truly_ until you left that cheeseburger, uneaten,” Crowley gingerly places the Blade, hilt first, on Dean’s palm, then closes the rest of his fist around it and arranged the fist over the body’s heart, “that I began to let myself believe – maybe miracles do come true.”

Crowley’s whiskey-colored eyes, as they alight on Dean’s face, glint oddly in the dim lighting, as though his hope is breaking free, too much for his vessel to contain.

“Listen to me, Dean Winchester, what you’re feeling right now – it’s not death. It’s _life_. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. _See_ , what I see. _Feel_ , what I feel.” Crowley realises he is growling slightly, readjusts his tone. “Let’s go take a howl at that moon.”

Then he just stares, observing. Dean is still, silent. No human being would be able to understand what Crowley is watching. He watches as the soul of Dean Winchester emerges from the Mark of Cain to resettle in its former home.

But this soul is different, corrupted by the Mark and Dean’s death. Dean’s soul is twisted, smokey. It writhes in his veins and clouds his lungs with pure demonic intent.

And suddenly, Dean’s eyes snap open, inky black and inherently Hellish.


End file.
